


Cautionary Tale

by skinsuit



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, What We Do in the Shadows (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale doesn't yet consider Crowley a friend, Don't mess with Aziraphale, Gen, Tragicomedy, Tried to keep the narration up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 16:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20156353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinsuit/pseuds/skinsuit
Summary: Vampires of London, don't mess with the angel, or cross his path. Why? Well it starts in regency London with a young vampire called Lenore the Impulsive and a mortal poet called Wayland Kind, who happened to be a friend of the angel Aziraphale. The angel, only seems soft.





	Cautionary Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments and feedback please?  
Even constructive criticism. Also a big thank you to my beta reader Peaceblank.

~1815 London~  
Lenore the Impulsive wasn’t good at being a vampire, she’d only been around two hundred years or so. She couldn’t stalk, hunt, or climb really. She could barely fly, just mainly hover a few feet off the ground. She didn’t have the brains for it. However, she was breathtakingly beautiful, with her long white blonde hair, doll like face, and kicking curves. So she didn’t have to do much to hunt, victims came to her. She just had to go at night and she’d come back well fed and bloody mouthed.

“Lenore, I know you are very young and very stupid, but you can’t keep this up, you vill kill the wrong mortal and someone vill end you, Lenore,” Nadja warned her, for she felt sorry for the poor dumb thing.

“Oh don’t listen to her Lenore,” Lazlo told Lenore. “She’s just jealous, she doesn’t have tits like you do.”

Lenore for her part just stared blankly at both of them with her big blue eyes and giggled a bit. “I haven’t been caught yet, and I won’t be. As long as there are randy men, lookin’ to swive* I’m not gonna starve.”

Nadja clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes. Trying to get any information into that head was like nailing jelly to a wall, it didn’t stay. Besides she was right, all you really had to do was walk down any street in London and some moron looking to put his dick in you would show up. It was easy as falling off a log and no one seemed to notice or care about the murder.

~~~~~~~  
“Remarkable, Mr. Kind, just remarkable,” Aziraphale said handing back the sheaf of poems to his friend.

Wayland Kind was twenty one, with close cropped red gold hair, sad hazel eyes, a long nose, generally lean, and tall. He blushed at the compliment, “You think so? I don’t know, I always thought my last output was better.”

They sat in Aziraphale's private club, and discussed Wayland’s work.

“No no, my dear boy, you’re skill as a wordsmith is equal to any of the great poets of our age. You could be the next Byron,” Aziraphale gushed.

“But I’m just the poor son of a vicar from Shropshire, I work as a school master, I don’t have the money to get my work published. Right now my wage is too meager to afford even a nicer boarding house.” He said playing with the frayed edges of his cuffs.

Aziraphale gave his friend’s hands a reassuring pat and smiled kindly. “Don’t worry, Mr. Kind, I will use my literary connections to get you published, just as I did for my dear friend Miss —A,**” Aziraphale said.

Wayland smiled and blushed again, he was a nervous soul, he took a sip of wine to brace himself. “Not yet, my dear Mr. Fell, I have something I’ve been working on that is not yet finished. It’s very promising, nay, I say it may be my best, if I am to be so bold. I’m going to work on it tonight and I’ll show you in the morning. You can help me get it published when I’m done.”

“Very well,” Aziraphale said and drank his own glass of wine. “If you say so.”

They left the club about twenty minutes later and walked arm in arm (which wasn’t considered ‘gay’ then) back to the rooming house, Mr. Kind was living at, they bid a fond farewell to each other. 

~~~~~~  
“Oh Nadja, I just spotted a very tasty man,” Lenore said, as they walked arm in arm in the opposite direction.

“What? The one in white? No, no you do not want him, he is… dangerous.” Nadja said.

“No, his friend in the shabby top hat, he looks scrummy,” Lenore said.

“I don’t think it’s wise, besides we said we were going to meet Lazlo and Nandor by the docks to hunt some sailors,” Nadja said,

“No,” Lenore said distractedly. “I don’t feel like sailors, too salty…”

“Mr. Fell and his friend Mr. Crawlie are both very powerful beings and anyone who chums around with them…” Nadja trailed off, Lenore had vanished. “Oh shit.”

~~~  
Wayland Kind was working steadily by lamplight on his poem at his desk. He was wondering what to title it, but the titles always came last. There was insistent tap on his window pane. Curious he pulled back the curtain and standing under the pitiful streetlight was a beautiful creature with long blonde hair, an angelic face, but most importantly the best pair of boobies he’d ever seen. She was smiling at him, beckoning him to open the door. He briefly thought of the strict Landlady’s policies about female visitors, but then again, he hadn’t been able to afford a whore at the local brothel for ages… and this lady was ten times better looking ...So he opened the window and she seemed to float in… her lips were so red, her skin was so pale… and she was smiling wide eyes glimmering.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
“Vhere is Lenore?” Nandor asked, looking over Nadja to see if she was somehow hiding from him. 

“Off being a moron,” Nadja sighed. 

“Darling, you promised she’d be here,” Lazlo said.

“I didn’t, I said, I vould ask her to come along, She being stupid, got distracted and wandered off,” Nadja said.

“Ah, there she is!” Nandor said. “Lenore, you’ve been naughty feeding without us,”

Lenore appeared from the shadows, grinning her face, neck and tits dripping with fresh blood.

“Oh you didn’t,” Nadja commented. “You stupid, girl!”

“What? I was hungry, and he was tasty.” Lenore said. “Nandor, if you’d be so kind.” 

She offered her arm to Nandor who took it, grinning at her.

Lazlo offered his arm to Nadja. “Oh stop moping, nothing is going to happen, you know that’s why they call her ‘the impulsive.’

“Someday it’s going to come back to her,” Nadja muttered. “I varned her.”

~~~~~~~~~  
Aziraphale waited in the hall of the cheap rooming house where Wayland Kind was living, the landlady had told him, that Mr. Kind wasn’t answering his door. That was strange since they agreed to meet this morning. Aziraphale vaguely wondered if they’d drank too much last night, humans didn’t have the tolerance for that sort of thing. No, Mr. Kind hadn’t seemed drunk. Cautiously he miracled the door to Walyand Kind’s room ajar. He softly knocked at the door, there was no answer, and so Aziraphale walked in. The rooms weren’t much, just a bedroom and a sitting room really. Aziraphale felt a twinge, something cold, dead, and unnatural had been here. The smell of blood lingered in the air. Wayland Kind was sitting at his desk, his head laying on the desktop as if he was asleep. Aziraphale took his friend’s hand, it was cold as clay and there was no pulse. He shuddered, he knew the undead were abroad in this city, but he personally hadn’t encountered a vampire since the fall of Rome. He looked at the face of his poor friend, eyes wide, mouth agape and on his neck there was the mark of two fangs. The manuscript under Mr. Kind’s head of course was soaked with blood, he discreetly closed Mr. Kind's eyes. Aziraphale could feel the despair in the pit of stomach, cold and leaden. Wayland Kind was only twenty one, he was a brilliant soul, thoughtful, modest, caring, and with such a gift for the written word. He’d never get to write more or be more. He was dead. Suddenly though Aziraphale felt a shift inside of him. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. He’d been murdered, slaughtered like some beast by some hungry vampire. The white, silent hot fury that now bubbled inside the angel’s chest would have made his superiors (who thought him a bit of a softy) proud. HE had to find the monster who killed his friend, he had to kill the creature that did this.

He swept out the room, closing the door behind him.

He was down the block, walking at a fast pace, not thinking just feeling, before he realized something…. He had no clue where he could find a vampire in London, at all. Not an idea at all. He didn’t search out the ghastly things to smite them in their lairs like say Sandalphon would. First of all, that would mean having to deal with them, secondly smiting vampires was a disgusting process when one got down to it. However he had frien-, not a friend, more like an acquaintance…? Alright, a source of information, who knew about all things that went bump in the night in London, Crowley. He had to find Crowley, then the vampire, then he’d get to the smiting.

**Author's Note:**

> *Swive 17th century slang meaning to fuck
> 
> ** Guess which Regency literally figure is Miss --A. Go on. :)
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~  
Need comments, will be very sad and feel like failure if I don't get them. I really love comments they keep warm when my soul is cold and weary. SO please make like book report and comment!


End file.
